My father taught me how to play the beer bottle. It was Schlitz, and the world hadn\'t yet kicked my ass, I was just a sprout, three or four. \"You gotta shove your lower lip under like this,\" he said, \"then huff some life over the top, yeah, like you\'re tryin’ to start a fight with God.\"
So I did, and a sound wobbled out, deep like the hum of the fridge when you\'ve got nothing inside but light. We laughed, his face crinkling like old leather, and somewhere in there, I thought this is what it meant to be happy.
Then he threw me a curveball, “See, kid, it\'s all about how much you\'ve let it drown you. Less juice, different tune.” With a crooked smirk, he nudged that bottle my way, told me to take a swig. I did, the bitter bite of it, and when I sang into that bottle again, it was another kind of laughter, more hollow, as if the world was laughing back, or else it was the beginning of learning how to forget.
Now he\'s leaning in, all hush-hush like he\'s about to unveil the secret to beating the ponies or how to dodge the draft. “Wanna grab life by the balls? I\'ll show ya. Here\'s how you lawyer ‘em.” He raises an eyebrow like he\'s picking a lock to the pearly gates. “You just lift that, kid, yeah, like that. Now, let it sit there, cook a bit, then twist your mug to the crowd.”
I mimicked his circus trick, felt like a damn fool holding my face like a clown in court.
\"Good, good,\" he nods, \"now all lawyer-like, you turn slow, give it to \'em straight – \'I see.\'\" And there it was, the hotshot playbook: one part bluff, two parts bullshit, blended until the truth\'s just a chaser.
We laughed again, me and him, but somewhere inside an alarm rang faintly. All these lessons, these games, they were just survival skills for a world thirsty for your blood, a world where the bottle\'s always half empty and truth\'s just a joke you forgot the punchline to.